Nightmare
by EdlundCarver
Summary: ( SxD SLASH) Sam Winchester had always had nightmares as far back as he could remember. He had been having them for so long that, most of the time, they didn't even scare him anymore. What scared Sam Winchester now, was the fact that lately he would prefer one of his nightmares over one of his dreams any night.


Sam Winchester had always had nightmares as far back as he could remember. They were more than nightmares really; he could hardly close his eyes without images of violent deaths and gruesome, mangled bodies invading his psyche. He assumed it probably had something to do with witnessing his mother die when he was a baby. Sam had been so young at the time that he couldn't even remember his mother, let alone her body being plastered and burned on the ceiling above his cradle like he had heard his father, John, talking about so many times; he assumed that was the kind of thing that could be easily seared into a person's subconscious and give them trouble from time to time though.

The only time Sam didn't have nightmares was when Dean slept over. Something about his best friend being curled up in a sleeping bag in the floor beside his bed made Sam feel safe. Sam and Dean had lived in the same neighborhood their whole lives, and although there was about four years difference between the two boys, they had become instant friends the day Dean witnessed Sam beat up a boy about three years older than he was, and about three times his size who was trying to steal Sam's favorite toy truck. Sam had been seven years old at the time.

"You just kicked that kid's _ass_!" Dean had exclaimed from across the street, "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

Sam stared down at the bright yellow, plastic toy dump truck embarrassed. He hadn't realized anyone was around to witness the violent display and the attention it was earning him from the older boy was making him uncomfortable. "My dad tells me that I need to know how to take care of myself in case anything ever tries to hurt me." Sam wished fervently in that moment that he could have been like any other seven year old. That he and his dad could bond over little league games and letting Sam stay up late to watch PG-13 movies instead of learning how to take down an assailant and being pulled out of school every other week because he had nowhere else to stay while his dad went on hunting trips. Sure, it might have meant he'd have lost his favorite toy but it would also mean avoiding the inevitable fight the other boy would try to start with this freak second grader who needed so badly to be put in his place.

"Think you could teach me?" Was Dean's response.

Same lifted his head. That was definitely not the reaction he was expecting. He sat down his toy and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "Sure." He could feel a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hell yea!" Dean ran across the street to meet up with the younger boy, "My name's Dean. Dean Smith."

Same looked up at the boy "I'm Sam Winchester."

And that was how it all started. From that moment on the two were practically inseparable. Sam taught Dean everything he knew about self-defense and Dean was a quick learner. Dean taught Sam everything he knew about girls (which, admittedly, was probably more than any eleven year old should) even though, at the tender age of seven, Sam wasn't terribly interested in the opposite sex.

Sam met Dean's family, which was less than pleasant. Dean lived with his grandparents; he had ever since he was born.

"My parents died when I was a baby," Dean had explained "Our house caught on fire."

"Do you remember them?" Sam asked.

"Nah, I was too little. I've only seen pictures and stuff. I've always lived with good ol' Gran and Gramps."

Sam felt horrible that Dean had to live with his grandparents. His father wasn't winning any "Dad of the Year" awards he knew, but Dean's grandparents were horrible. They were old, _decrepit_ even, and mean. When Dean had tried to introduce Sam to them, it had earned him a swift slap up the side of his head from his grandmother for not giving her warning that he was bringing company over so she could clean.

Sam wasn't sure it would have mattered anyway; the house was filthy and smelled like urine and ointments. His grandfather had sat in a nearly catatonic state in front of an old flickering television set while his wife continued to slap and squawk at Dean. Sam had felt sorry and embarrassed for his friend. That was the first and last time they had been to Dean's house. From then on, they stayed over at Sam's. After a while John even let the boys have the house when he went on hunting trips since Dean was older and used to taking care of himself, taking care of Sam just felt normal.

"My mom died in a fire when I was a baby too." Sam's voice was quiet. He never talked to anyone about his mother, not even his dad. For some reason though, it seemed natural to talk about such things with Dean; he and his best friend didn't keep secrets.

"No kidding?" Dean cocked his head.

"No, I don't remember her either. That's why my dad is never home, he's trying to find wha- , who killed my mom." Sam corrected himself. He and his best friend had _almost _no secrets.

And for a long time, that explanation as to why John was hardly ever around seemed to satisfy Dean. But as the two got older, they grew closer and closer and such a vague excuse was no longer enough for the older boy.

"So where again did you say John was this week?" Dean asked, from across the cafeteria booth. He eyed Sam suspiciously as he chewed a bite of his cold dinner roll. The high school they now both attended was definitely not known for its gourmet meals, but really, what high school was?

"Ohio." Sam rolled his eyes, exasperated. He could see Dean's jaw muscles flex as he chewed and, for some reason, this made his mouth feel very dry.

"Sammy, I know you're lying to me."

"No, I'm not. He's in Ohio Dean, on the job. And don't call me that, you know I hate it."

"Right, right "the job". Traveling mechanic right?" Dean took a swig of his milk and Sam forced himself not to stare as a drop of the liquid dribbled down his lips and chin. It made him feel uncomfortable that he had started noticing his best friend so closely lately; what was wrong with him?

"Alright _Sam_," Dean emphasized his name "I know John's no mechanic. For one, I've basically lived at your house since I was eleven and I've never seen a single tool. Can't be much of a mechanic without tools now can you _Sam_?"

"Dean…" Sam ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

"Second," Dean continued without missing a beat "You've got a damn arsenal outside in the tool shed where, theoretically, the tools a mechanic would need should be."

"Dean, come on…"

"_Third_, you've got some kind of, like, _pentagram_ under every rug in your house _and _the mat on the front porch. I don't know what it is your old man does Sammy, but I know it's not working on small machinery." Dean reclined against the back of the booth, "Dude, you're my best friend we aren't supposed to have secrets, what's the deal? I'm just saying I don't have any from you."

Sam stared down at his lunch tray. There was no point in trying to lie anymore he guessed. Dean wasn't an idiot and Sam knew he wasn't about to give up his interrogation until he got the answers he wanted, deserved really. He really did tell Sam everything, so shouldn't that be a courtesy that went both ways? Of course it was; Sam only hoped that when Dean found out what a freak his father really was what a freak _he _really was, that he wouldn't abandon him. Dean was his best friend…his only friend, the only person he felt safe and _normal _when he was with.

"Alright…" Sam conceded "You're right I'll tell you everything. Just…not here ok? Meet me at the house tonight and I'll tell you the truth."

"Pfft. Where else would I go tonight, my house?" Dean scoffed sarcastically "Of course I'll be over, and no more bullshit, right?" He tore off another bite of roll with his teeth.

"No more bullshit." Sam promised quietly.

Dean smiled, satisfied, but Sam just felt defeated.

That evening, Sam really did tell Dean everything, just like he promised. He told him about the guns in the shed, the devil's traps under the rugs, the reason they were always so stocked up on salt. He told him about the monsters his father hunted, and the way his mother really died, and how his dad took it upon himself to avenge her death by killing the demon that took her from them.

And through it all, Dean remained silent. He nodded occasionally and would ask a question every now and then, but for the most part he only listened. He was still quiet when Sam had finished explaining, his brows knitted together, and his eyes, deep and thoughtful, were fixated on some unseen thing on the floor. He hadn't said anything in so long that Sam was starting to panic, certain his best friend was ready to head for the hills but honestly, Sam wouldn't blame him.

"So…" The silence had finally become too much for Sam "That's all of it, the truth…So what do you think?"

_Bull shit. You're crazy. You're a liar. I don't ever wanna see you again. _These were all answers Sam was expecting to hear. But after another long stretch of silence, Dean finally looked up to meet Sam's nervous face.

"I want to help…I want to learn how to hunt."

For a minute, Sam thought he physically felt his heart drop into his stomach. That was the very last thing he had expected to hear, how could anyone choose to live this life? All absent fathers and learning to use a gun at six, he'd almost rather his friend _had _run for the hills. Dean was the only normal, non-monster part of his life and he wanted it to stay that way.

"No Dean, you don't, you really, _really _don't." Sam was practically pleading.

"I do Sammy. You and John, you guys took me in, you let me live in your house, kept me from having to go home to the smell of piss and the sound of screaming every night, you're like my _family_. You've done so much, helped me so much. Now it's my turn, I'm gonna help find the thing that killed your mom. I'm gonna help kill it, you can't convince me otherwise, my mind's made up."

In that moment, Sam didn't like Dean very much. He didn't like his pretty speech or the fact that Dean was so willing to give up his life to save someone neither of them had ever even met, and he didn't like the fact Dean had said he thought of him as family…

When John had come home from Ohio, Dean told him what he had told Sam. But, unlike Sam, John was more than happy to welcome him into the "family business", teaching him everything in a few months that he had spent fourteen years teaching Sam. Again, Dean proved to be a quick learner.

It wasn't long after then that Dean dropped out of high school.

"Come on Sam, you know school's never been my bag." He had said cooly when Sam confronted him about what a stupid decision he'd made, "Besides, they can't really teach you what you need to know for the profession we're going into, am I right? I'll get my GED one of these days man, don't sweat it."

Sam had wanted to cry. The one normal thing in his life was slipping away right before his eyes. In a matter of a few short months, Dean had gone from his ignorantly bliss best friend to the very thing he hated most about his life and it made him sick to think about.

They still hung out from time to time, when Dean wasn't out on the job with John that was. And Sam still considered him his best friend. No matter how much he hated him, he still loved him, still admired him, still watched him so closely, still couldn't keep him out of his mind…and that made Sam sick to think about too.

When Sam graduated high school as Valedictorian, he knew his father wouldn't be in the crowd. When the principal introduced him to give his speech and he'd taken the stage he hadn't even bothered scanning the sea of people to try and find a familiar face because he knew there wouldn't be one; Dean and his father were on a hunt somewhere out West. Sam hadn't bothered asking where specifically.

It was only by chance that after he had taken the folded up piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on the podium in front of him, that he happened to look up and see Dean sitting as close as he could to the front row of the auditorium. He was smiling, he looked so proud, proud of _him_ and the realization made Sam's heart flip and caused tears to well up in his eyes. Dean nodded, recognizing he'd been noticed. And as quickly as the flipping of a switch, the happy tears became tears of anguish when Sam realized that as proud Dean might be of him right now, he was going to hate him in a few short moments when Sam told him what he planned to do with his life once the graduation ceremony was over.

"You can't just _leave _Sammy! We're so _close_ to finding this thing! Don't you want to help kill the thing that took the most important woman in your entire world away from you?" Sam had been right, Dean was irate.

"Dean we've been "so close" since I was fifteen. How do we even know it's still out there? It could be, I don't know, dead or, or…I don't know Dean. All I know is we've been "so close" for so long and I'm tired." Sam tried to explain. God he hated arguing with Dean, even though he was taller than his best friend now getting in fights with him always made Sam feel two feet tall.

"You're _tired_? Jesus Christ, you're fucking _tired_ of looking for your mother's _murderer_? Did you even hear what you just said Sam? How could you be so fucking selfish?"

Sam gritted his teeth. He could feel his eyeballs start to burn. Dammit, he _would not_ cry. He would not break just because Dean was yelling at him and for what, wanting to go to college? Wanting to become a lawyer, live a normal life without monsters and demons? For wanting so badly to go on and live the life that Dean had the opportunity to live but gave up for reasons Sam couldn't possibly even want to understand? Anger rose inside of him. It bubbled hot, all the way from the soles of his feet to his scalp and manifested itself in his hands which curled themselves into fists and before he even realized what was happening, Sam felt his knuckled collide with the side of Dean's face. Hard.

"So fucking what if I'm being selfish?" He yelled "Did you ever stop to think maybe you and dad are being just a little fucking selfish too? Did you ever stop to think that maybe _my_ mom would have wanted me to go on with my life? That maybe she would be proud of her son for getting a full ride to Stanford? For wanting to become a lawyer instead of spending all of his time obsessing about something that _can't be fucking changed_ no matter what anyone does? Fuck Dean, _I hate this life_! I don't want to live it anymore, and I've never understood why you do? So I'm sorry ok? But I'm doing this, you can't convince me otherwise, my mind's made up."

The side of Dean's face was already turning red Sam noticed. He hadn't meant to hit him that hard, he hadn't really meant to hit him at all it had just sort of happened. Everything was coming to a head and Sam was scared as Hell. And to make matters worse, Dean didn't look angry at all, he just looked kind of broken like he was trying to accept something he knew had been coming for a long time. He turned to face Sam, his face painted with sadness and betrayal. He tried to hide it behind a mask of rage but Sam could see right through it. He could see Dean and everything he was feeling and Sam was worried he might never get to go to college if his heart snapped in two.

Dean grabbed the front of Sam's shirt in two tight fists full and slammed him against the wall. His jaw clenched and flexed like he wanted to say something, but his mouth remained shut. He kept Sam pinned against the drywall with his body as his eyes bore into the younger man's. He wanted to curse him, Sam knew. He wanted to bounce his head against that wall again and again until Sam finally submitted, came to his senses, promised he wouldn't leave; but he didn't. He just held him there, glaring into his eyes like he was searching for answers, or maybe just something to say.

Sam could feel Dean's heart thundering against his chest. His skin was burning with rage; his knuckles were digging into Sam's chest. Dean smelled like sweat, sweat and some kind of musk that was uniquely Dean. Their faces were only inches away and Sam could fell Dean's breath cool against his skin that was suddenly very flushed, and not just from fighting. Sam loathed that he felt this way. Dammit it was wrong, especially at a time like this. His height forced him to look down at the older man, and he knew he could have probably pushed Dean away if he wanted to, but he felt inexplicably weak in his seething presence, and he began to wish that Dean would do something, _anything_ because he was beginning to tremble.

Finally Dean released his grip. He let his arms fall limp at his sides as he backed away. He never looked away from Sam's eyes.

"Just go then." Was all he said.

When Sam was finally alone in his car, he crumbled. With no one else around he let the tears fall freely as he drove away from his only friend, his best friend that he had ever had and he knew things would never be the same between the two of them. Sam didn't even bother to call his Dad. He knew Dean would tell him everything when he came home again.

College was everything Sam had hoped it would be. He didn't know anybody, and nobody knew him. It was his chance to start completely new, to forget about monsters, to forget about his dad…to forget about Dean. And he did, for the most part anyway, he buried himself in his school work. When he wasn't studying he worked a part time job as a busboy, and when he wasn't cleaning up after messy restaurant patrons he would socialize endlessly with the throngs of girls who always seemed to seek him out.

"I'm Jessica." Said the pretty blonde girl, as she batted her eyes and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Sam smiled, he felt his heart skip for someone new for the first time in a long time "I'm Sam."

It was easy for Sam to fall in love with Jess. She was funny and smart and sweet and beautiful and never even mentioned things that go bump in the night. And every time Sam was with her, he found it easier and easier to forget everything he was running so hard from, that was probably the thing he loved most about her.

After being away from home for nearly four years, things seemed to be going perfect in Sam's life; he had never felt so free. He had friends who he liked to hang out and go to bars and ballgames with, he had an interview with a very prestigious law school coming up and after nearly a year of saving, he finally had enough money to buy Jessica an engagement ring she deserved.

There's a saying though, about everything good having to end at one point or another; and that saying never proved to be truer for anyone than it did for Sam Winchester.

At first, he almost didn't recognize the voice on his answering machine. He played the message twice just to make sure it was really him. It had been years since he'd last spoken to Dean, and hearing his voice again, telling him that it had been too long since he'd last seen John and that he was starting to worry, brought on all kinds of mixed and confusing emotions for Sam. In the four years Sam had been gone why did Dean have to pick now to call and complicate his life? He was happy, he had a beautiful girl who he loved, his future was bright and it made Sam furious that Dean thought he could just dial him up and ruin all of that now.

But buried beneath the anger were the scary emotions that came with hearing Dean's voice for the first time in so long. Anger was simple, it made it easy to keep the distance Sam had worked so hard to create between him and his past; he could dwell on the anger. And anger was a hell of a lot easier to accept than the excitement that caused Sam's chest to tighten when he heard that voice. Anger was easier to feel than the dull ache of longing for someone who used to mean so much to you, it was easier to understand than whatever emotion he had tried and failed to keep at bay that he had felt towards Dean all those years, and apparently still did.

Sam didn't return Dean's call. It was horrible that Dean didn't know where John was and Sam wished he cared more, honestly, but he was more worried about trying to keep the life he had worked so hard to build from slipping away from him. He had hoped his silence would be a hint to his friend that he didn't want anything to do with his old life. But he was disappointingly unsurprised when Dean had snuck into his dorm a few days later to continue pleading his case.

"John hasn't been home in a few days." Dean said matter-of-factly.

Sam snorted "So? He's working overtime on a Miller time shift, I'm sure he'll stumble back home soon."

"He went on a hunting trip."

Dean's last words hung in the air. Of course John had gone missing on a hunting trip; it definitely wasn't the first time this had happened. But something in the way Dean looked when he'd said it, something about the fact that he'd been desperate enough to come to Sam for help after nearly two years of silence told him that this time was different.

Sam went with Dean. He didn't want to by any means, he wanted to stay at his new home curled up in bed with Jessica but he'd, quite frankly, missed Dean and he was worried about his father. So they'd hopped in the 67' Chevy Impala and began their search which, of course, had been less than fruitful.

They'd gone to some town in the middle of nowhere where men had been mysteriously disappearing. A Woman in White had been the culprit, and she was easily taken care of. Sam had to admit, he _liked_ being with Dean again. It felt natural, comfortable even like no time had passed at all, like they hadn't been estranged for two years…like Sam had never abandoned his best friend.

Sam frowned. He couldn't start thinking like that, he hadn't done anything wrong. Dean had made the decision to live the life of a freak and Sam had chosen differently and there was nothing wrong with that.

"What' eatin' ya Sammy?" Dean asked from the driver's side of the car.

Sam snapped his head to look at his friend; he hadn't realized he'd been so outwardly distressed. "Nothing," he lied "I'm glad we ganked the spirit and all, just…wish we could've found more about dad…"

"Yea me too," Dean wrung his hands around the steering wheel nervously "We won't give up though Sammy. We'll keep heading west. Maybe we'll stop at a hotel and catch some z's in a few miles?"

There was an uncertain tone in his voice and it pained Sam. "Dean…I've got to get back…I've got an interview to get into law school in, like, ten hours. I can't just,"

"Yea I get it" Dean cut him off scowling, "I'll get you back home."

The rest of the drive had been silent.

Sam opened his door and climbed out of the car, his height making for a less than graceful exit. He could feel Dean smirking and it made his cheeks burn.

"Hey Sammy," Dean called out. Sam turned to face him, hoping he wouldn't notice the rosy color in his cheeks, "We made a hell of a team back there."

"Yea." Was all Sam could think to say. No matter how good it had felt to be back by Dean's side he wouldn't let himself be drawn back in to all the madness. When he realized that's all Sam had to say, Dean drove away and Sam forced himself to turn his back on the shrinking figure of the Impala and re-enter his dorm building.

"Jess? You home?" Sam called out as he entered through the doorway. He smiled, the whole place was humid and steamy and he could hear the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom. He threw a dreamy glance toward where the sound was coming from as he sat down on his bed. This was his life now. Not chasing Women in White, not pining over some unexplainable feelings for Dean, not searching for his dad who would, inevitably, go missing again sooner or later. His life was here, at Stanford, with Jess, and the endless opportunities that lay ahead of him.

Sam closed his eyes and lay back on his bed. He let out a content sigh and had begun to relax when he felt something warm and sticky drop on his forehead; one drop, two drops. Sam regretted opening his eyes even while they were still shut. There above him on the ceiling, was Jessica. Her leg was twisted at a sickening angle, and her face was frozen in what looked like a scream of terror. Blood was staining her once beautiful silk nightgown that Sam had bought for her. "Jess!" He screamed as the flames engulfed her lifeless body, "Jess! Jess!"

The flames swallowed up Jess, obliterated the ceiling and scorched down the walls. In a matter of seconds the entire room was Hell on Earth and Sam couldn't move. He was being held to that bed by some unseen force, all he could do was cover his eyes and scream her name, "Jess! No! Jess!" He remembered hearing the story his father told about how his mother had died, about the heat and the smell and the sounds of it all. Sam was terrified, but he still couldn't, or maybe wouldn't, go.

He resigned to his fate; a fiery death watching the woman he loved being burned above him when he felt arms wrap around him. They forced him to his feet and out the door of the burning building and dragged him out onto the street. All the while he was still screaming her name. It was only after several minutes of being in the fresh air that Sam could finally hear someone calling his name. It sounded distant at first, gradually moving closer and closer until it was directly in his ear. _Sam_ he heard Dean shouting _Sam Sam Sam. _

Sam looked at his friend, tears streaming down his face. He didn't know what he should be feeling at that moment. Should he be angry with Dean for bringing him back into all of this, or would this have happened whether or not Dean had shown back up? Should he be grateful that his best friend had just saved him from a gruesome, fiery death? Shouldn't he be feeling some sort of horrible grief or fear about what just happened to his girlfriend? Sam couldn't think, he couldn't begin to even try, all he knew was everything hurt like hell from the inside out. So he gave up. He slumped to the ground and cradled his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Dean was by his side in an instant. He wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders in an attempt to steady his friend. "I gotcha Sammy," he whispered over and over, "I gotcha."

After the fire department had come, and the flames had been contained, and Sam's pain had been resided to bitter acceptance, he picked himself up off the pavement. Dean followed him to the trunk of the Impala. For a long time, Sam stood hunched over the vehicle, his knuckles turning white from the grip he had on the edge of the metal. He wasn't crying anymore. He wasn't screaming for Jessica or shaking uncontrollably, he simply stared, blank faced, down at the car below him; Dean stayed by his side, feeling more than helpless. The two stood that way for what seemed like hours.

Dean cleared his throat, he wanted to say something but he was damn terrible in situations like these. He had opened and shut his mouth again several times before finally deciding that even if he had been good with words, there would have been nothing he could say to lessen Sam's pain. He lifted his hand and laid it gently on his friend's shoulder.

Sam shrugged Dean's hand away roughly. He lifted the trunk of the Impala and peered inside. There were weapons of every kind; guns, knives, ammunition for days. Then of course there were some more unconventional means of protection; salt, holy water, anti-possession charms. Sam let his eyes fall over the portable arsenal, his hand hovered above each item before he finally picked up one of the guns and inspected it. So this was it, after all these years running from his demons, his _literal_ demons, they had finally caught up with him. He wished he was more shocked, but he had always known in the back of his mind that one day his true identity would catch up with him, would drag him kicking and screaming back onto the battlefield. How could he ever have expected anything less?

"We got work to do." Sam gritted his teeth as he threw the gun back into the trunk and slammed it shut.

And all these events had been what led Sam to where he was now; in a shady hotel room with two twin beds on the outskirts of some godforsaken-middle-of-nowhere town continuing the quest to track down and kill the monster that had killed, first his mother, and now his girlfriend.

"Dibs on first shower." Dean called behind him as he threw his bag onto the bed closest to the window.

"Dude, come on" Sam complained "You always use all the hot water."

"Yea well, you're gonna have to learn to call dibs faster. In the meantime," Dean pulled his shirt over his head "This place has got Casa Erotica on pay per view." He smirked before closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sam smiled a little, Dean truly had no shame.

There was nothing on TV; Sam had been through all the channels at least twice before settling on some kind of documentary on former President Kennedy. Not that he had any interest in politics, past or present, he just couldn't stand silence. Sam turned over on his side. He hadn't been able to sleep on his back since finding Jessica's corpse splayed above him on the ceiling. The quiet murmur of the television set coupled with the steady pelting of water against shower walls was just what Sam needed to shut our his noisy thoughts. He could feel himself relaxing, slipping deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Before Dean had even come out of the bathroom, Sam was asleep.

Sam pried his heavy eyelids open. The hotel room was awash in the soft glow from the dusk-to-dawn light shining through the thin curtains covering the window he had his back turned to. The only noise was the breathing of the man in the bed adjacent to Sam's which was, admittedly, much heavier than usual. Sam took a deep breath. He hated the quiet, it made his thoughts so much louder but he wasn't willing to leave the warmth of his bed to get up and turn on the TV. Why was it off anyway? Sam was sure he'd turned it on before lying down and Dean wouldn't have turned it off, he knew how Sam liked the noise.

The feeling of fingers brushing the hair away from his ear brought Sam's questioning to a screeching halt. He bolted up in bed, ready to defend himself from this silent invader.

But it hadn't been an invader. Sam had twisted around to find Dean, wide-eyed, wearing nothing but a towel, retracting his hand as if he had touched something searing hot. He had a look on his face as though he had been caught doing something terrible.

"Shit Dean! What the hell?" Sam breathed a sigh of relief seeing he was in no real danger.

"Sorry. I…I just…uh…" Dean stuttered hopelessly for something to say.

"Did you just now get out of the shower?" Sam interrupted his stammering.

"Yea…" Dean answered quietly, nervously "I guess I did."

Sam ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, "Dean, what the hell were you doing?"

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. He stared down at Sam, who was still sitting up in bed, like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do or say. The silence was making Sam nervous; the way his best friend was looking at him was making his heart hammer against his chest like a bird trying desperately to escape its cage. He looked almost scared and God, it was killing Sam.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely above a whisper "Are you alright?"

Wordlessly, the older man moved closer towards the edge of the bed. He reached out his hand to gingerly brush the hair away from Sam's eyes, letting his fingers trace a burning line from the young man's temple to his chin before bringing both rough, strong hands to gently cup his face.

Sam thought he might die. His skin was raised in bumpy goose-flesh and he wasn't even sure if he was breathing or not, his eyes were locked with the man's above him, "Dean?" he breathed.

"Don't think Sammy." Were his only words before their lips met softly.

The kiss was cautious at first, a mere testing of the waters. Dean's lips ghosted over Sam's in gentle, rhythmic motions which Sam matched eagerly, he ran his hands hungrily up his friend's naked arms to grasp at his shoulders. Dean deepened the kiss, skimming his tongue along Sam's bottom lip begging for permission to enter. Sam obliged happily, parting his lips so that Dean's tongue could meet his.

Sam could feel his blood rushing, pumping, springing him to life. Had he not been so enthralled with passion, he might have felt guilty. Of all the girls he'd ever touched, or loved, or been with, nothing could hold a candle to the feeling of Dean's lips on his. Nothing could compare to the feeling of his calloused hands sliding beneath Sam's shirt touching every inch of his torso, setting it on fire…not even his Jessica who, at this moment in time, seemed like she only existed hundreds of years ago, in another lifetime, in another universe that Sam had once been a part of. He didn't care though, he only wanted more, more of Dean, all of Dean.

With shaking hands, Sam slipped his fingers into the waist of the towel covering Dean's lower half.

Sam's eyes snapped open in the darkness of the tiny hotel room. The flickering light from the TV bathed the walls around him in a harsh blue light; he pushed himself upright in his bed feeling the tightness in the front of his shorts. It was a dream, all of it. Sam glanced over to the bed where Dean was sleeping with all four limbs spread wide like some kind of starfish. Of course it was a dream. He rested his head against the wall behind him and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shame and arousal emanated from every inch of his being.

Sam Winchester had always had nightmares as far back as he could remember. He had been having them for so long that, most of the time, they didn't even scare him anymore. What scared Sam Winchester now, was the fact that lately he would prefer one of his nightmares over one of his dreams any night.


End file.
